Vulnerability
by princessozmaofoz
Summary: "At some level, she does mean everything that she says. She just doesn't mean it quite strongly enough as she ought, that's all." Innocent's reflections on the events of "Intelligent Design: Parts One and Two." MAJOR spoilers for those episodes.


Author's note: So I was hoping that someone would try to write something about a certain seemingly one-off Innocent line that the writers chose to plague us with in "Intelligent Design: Part I." But seeing as no one has yet, I decided to give it a go myself and it ended up being less about Innocent's home situation than it did about her difficult-to-define relationship with the Dynamic Duo. It's a much more personal, wistful Jean than I or others usually write, so I can't even say for sure that it's in-character. But it made sense to me as I was watching the episodes in question and writing.

Vulnerability

To her credit, she at least tries to pretend that she's okay with it. She shakes their hands, thanks them for all that they've done over the years, wishes them well. And at some level, she does mean everything that she says. She just doesn't mean it quite strongly enough as she ought, that's all.

It's horrible that she's making this all about her. Everyone has the right to make their own decisions, to "pursue their own happiness" as the Americans might put it. If their positions were reversed, she probably wouldn't dwell too much on how her resignation would affect them. _If _it would affect them.

Would it have affected them? Would they have even cared at all if she'd been the one to go and they the ones to stay? Jean can't be sure, and she has a feeling that she wouldn't like the answer regardless of what it was.

In any case, _she's_ in no hurry to resign. Not while there's still a decent chance she can reach chief constable before she's fifty-five. And even if she disregards her career ambitions, she definitely needs the money, especially if things at home end up going the way she fears they will…

That's what the real problem is, where it's always been. If Lewis and Hathaway had left before her personal life started falling-to-pieces, Innocent wouldn't feel this way. If they'd only left six months ago or even just three, she might even have been happy for them.

But they _didn't _leave three months ago; they're leaving now. And though Jean knows that their decision has little–if-anything to do with her personally, she can't help but feel that she's being abandoned anyway. They're leaving her at a time when she needs something in her life to remain, stable, reliable and unchanging. They're leaving her at a time when she needs someone to be there for her, to make sure she doesn't totally fall apart.

She's sure they'd be surprised to hear it, but the truth is that she doesn't really have anyone else right now.

If someone would've asked Jean Innocent a year ago if she were friends with Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway, she probably would've said "no." She would eagerly concede that she liked them both quite a lot but that it was still rather _unprofessional _to consider her subordinates to be "friends." But now that they're going, she wishes she'd been a little less formal and distant with them.

In any case, Lewis and Hathaway are still probably the closest thing she's got to friends, even if that's not exactly what they are. It's what they should have been if she'd only known better and tried harder.

Eight years—almost nine in James's case. Eight whole years and what does she really have to show for it? Amicable small talk in front of a murder board? A handful of shared drinks at the local? A single postcard from Robbie's holiday with his daughter in Italy?

It was all rather pathetic really. Eight years, countless wasted opportunities, two remarkable men she wished she'd gotten to know better.

Though she's always been relatively popular and well-connected, Jean has never had many actual "friends." She has her fair share of useful acquaintances—"friends of utility" some philosopher or another once called them. But they're not and have never really been interested in _her_—just in the potential advantages an association with her and she with them could provide. She can never really trust them fully, never really be herself with them.

She can't say she was ever fully "herself "even with Lewis or Hathaway, but she wonders if she could've been —if she'd chosen to, if she'd admitted to herself she wanted to. They're not like the others—her "so-called" friends who'd likely stab her in the back for their own benefit.

Lewis and Hathaway are genuine, compassionate, _real_—Lewis in particular: eternally thoughtful, fervently loyal, dependable, honest, _wonderful _Robbie. There's something about the man that makes Jean sure she'd trust him with her life, even if she's not sure she can burden him with her thoughts.

It's different with Hathaway, but in some ways, it's even more meaningful. Innocent suspects that when it really comes down it, the two of them are not so different from each other. Both identified as "destined" for success at a young age. Both significantly pressured to achieve their potential. Both never fully able to satisfy their own unreasonably high expectations. Both aggressively and predictably suppressing all of their deepest, most complicated feelings even from themselves.

The difference is that James will sometimes let himself be vulnerable in front of other people—Lewis, Hobson, even herself on a few memorable occasions. Innocent won't allow herself that, even on rare occasion. It would be a sign of weakness, an indicator of her own inadequacy.

The strangest thing is that—for the first time in a long time—she wants to let someone see her vulnerability. She wants to let someone know that she can really _feel_, that she's more than just a reserved, professional exterior. That she's far more _human _than people might think.

She just wants someone to tell her it's okay to stop suppressing her tears. Someone to pass her tissues as she lets herself to surrender to her feelings. Someone to rub her shoulder or pat her hair as they offer words of genuine consolation and compassion. Someone to make her feel that they really care—both in a general sense and about her specifically.

She just wants to let someone in, to let that person know the "real" Jean Innocent.

But she's not sure how. She's tried to drop hints as best she could, tried to indicate her desire to confide. But nothing has really come of any of her attempts.

She wonders if she's being too subtle, but she doesn't think she's capable of swallowing her pride for long enough to be more direct. The thought of openly crying out for help—regardless of how much she may need it—is humiliating, terrifying even.

She'd first need the assurance that someone would be willing to listen, would care enough to want to understand. Only then would she feel comfortable enough to share her problems, only then would she be able to trust Lewis and Hathaway with the truth. But how is she supposed to get this assurance; when and how will she know that she has it?

In any case, it's probably a moot point anyway. She's probably had her chance and missed it. It's probably too late.

But what if it isn't?

Innocent wonders if it's too unprofessional to ask Lewis and Hathaway to keep in touch. She then wonders if professionalism even matters anymore now that they're no longer working together.

But even if professionalism no longer matters, would they really want to keep in touch with a former boss—even one with which they got on reasonably well?

Robbie might- if she were to ask. She can't see him offering of his own volition, but if she expresses an interest, he might accept. He might call every so often, maybe invite her for dinner some weekend. It's not quite enough—not quite what she needs right now—but at least it's something.

She doubts she'll get even this much from Hathaway. She expects that he'll especially will want to cut all of his previous ties to the force with the probable exception of Lewis and—by default—Hobson.

Poor James had had such a miserable time of it in the end that the odds are good he'll want to forget everything about his time here. Everything and every_one. _ And though Innocent can't really blame him for wanting to forget, she wishes he'd make an exception for her.

Not that he'd have much reason to make an exception for her. After all, she had been a significant stressor in his life. The most she could really hope for was that James—former man of God as he was—could find a way to forgive her for some of it, even if she wasn't sure really sure she deserved it. Even if she suspected she wouldn't have been able to forgive herself.

She'd threatened to demote the poor boy once after he'd stopped a man from throwing himself from a window. Granted, James _had_ gone about stopping Hugh Mallory in a less-than-ideal fashion, but Jean had still essentially desired to punish Hathaway for saving a man's life. And all because of the stupid press—the stupid press that she'd made the most important thing at the time, when it was so unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

Well, that had always been her problem—hadn't it? Confused priorities. Emphasizing things of superficial importance over things of genuine importance.

When it really came down to it, she'd chosen her success over her happiness. And nowhere was that more evident than in the fact that she'd spent far more time establishing multiple useful acquaintances than she had maintaining a few good friendships.

If she'd known the loneliness this choice was going to cause, she probably would've prioritized differently. When she'd had the chance, she probably would've tried a lot harder to get to know people like Lewis and Hathaway and let them get to know her.

She probably would've tried to figure out exactly what the nature of their relationship with her was, so that the ambiguity over it didn't plague her as it did now. She wondered if there was a chance she could still find out exactly what this relationship was, or what it might have been.

"_There's only reliable way to find out about any relationship: test it to destruction." _Her own words suddenly come back to her and give her the final motivation she needs.

Perhaps, she'd ask them to dinner—some night when her husband isn't around, obviously. That would just make everything that much more uncomfortable if she still wants to confide in them about her failing marriage.

She should probably invite Laura too: in part to make Lewis feel more comfortable and in part because Hobson was yet another wasted opportunity for friendship—wasn't she? An opportunity that might still pan out even if the others fell through.

She'd invite them to dinner, and she'd swallow her pride for long enough to tell them everything: how much she regretted her past reservation and detachment, how much she wishes she knew them all better, how much she wants them to stay part of her life—ideally in a much more meaningful fashion than they were previously.

Her hope that maybe, just _maybe _there might be a place for her somewhere in their lives as well. And that maybe just _maybe _she might not need to say goodbye to "the Dynamic Duo" after all.

THE END


End file.
